


Mankind Should Be Our Business

by thatworldinverted



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:05:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted/pseuds/thatworldinverted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Eve is a time for surprises, but they don't usually include non-corporeal preteens on the sofa. The ghosts of Christmas pay a visit to 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas Eve

  
“You’re not ready to go.”  
  
Sherlock lifts his head from the experiment he’s spread over the kitchen table. “Of course I’m not ready to go, John. I have no intention of going anywhere.” He peers back into the microscope, ignoring John’s exasperated huff.  
  
“Sherlock, I’ve told you three times this week that Lestrade invited us to the Christmas Party at New Scotland Yard. Which is tonight. Now, in fact.”  
  
“And, apparently, you’ve failed to observe the fact that all three times I was plainly _not interested_. What possible use could there be in watching the plebeian morons at the Yard wallow in so-called holiday spirit as an excuse for drunkenness and ill-advised sexual activity?”  
  
Even without looking up, Sherlock can tell that John’s body language has shifted from ‘exasperated-but-amused’ to ‘my-flatmate-is-a-wanker.’ He cocks his head and makes a closer examination of John. He’s changed into a forest green jumper-- smooth, soft, notably lacking in both cables and frumpiness-- and what appears to be a new pair of trousers. Hoping to take advantage of some female officer’s...generosity, then? How disappointingly pedestrian.  
  
“God, Sherlock. Christmas is about more than drunken snogs and, I don’t know, fruitcake! It’s about spending time with family and the people we care for, the people we- love.”  
  
“All the more reason for me to remain here and tend this experiment. Mycroft is the only family I have left, and I shall undoubtedly receive the obligatory Christmas phone call from him tomorrow. I see no point in indulging the idiotic sentiment of others.”  
  
Already turning back to his slides, Sherlock misses the way that John’s face crumples, just for a moment, before he turns and makes a grab for keys and coat.  
  
“Bit not good, Sherlock. More than a bit not good, in fact. I just, I wanted to...” he trails off. Instead of the end of his sentence, the next thing that Sherlock hears is the door slamming shut.  
  
: : :  
  
It’s hours later and the flat is quiet when, still absorbed in his observations, Sherlock accidentally knocks together two volatile chemicals, flooding the flat with clouds of smoke. Cursing his unexpected clumsiness, he crosses to the sitting room windows and shoves open a window. The fog begins to clear, except for over the sofa, where it seems to... settle... oddly. Within moments, it’s begun to coalesce into the form of a person- a child? _What was in that beaker_ , he asks himself. A smoky, translucent eleven-year-old boy appears to be tucked into the corner of his sofa, knees to chest, socked toes wiggling.  
  
“Hello, Sherlock,” says Carl Powers.  
  
“I’m hallucinating. That’s the only logical explanation.” He reminds himself that it isn’t healthy to respond to one’s imaginary, fume-induced visitations. His years of experimentation with the harder drugs did teach him that much, at least.  
  
“You know what was in those beakers as well as I do, Sherlock. There isn’t anything that might have caused you to hallucinate me.”  
  
“Poison, then.”  
  
“Honestly. You haven’t had anything to eat or drink in a day, despite your Dr. Watson’s nagging. You haven’t even stepped outside. No blows to the head. Besides malnutrition, you’re in perfect health. You’re not imagining me. What’s left?”  
  
Sherlock flips through the possibilities- could be some sort of projection, even an incredibly advanced hologram. Who knows what Mycroft has his greedy hands on these days? He examines the room, peers under the couch, even fetches the kitchen chair and runs his hands across the ceiling. Nothing. Finally he walks over and plunges his entire hand into an insubstantial chest. Carl merely raises his eyebrows as if to say, see?  
  
Finally he locates his mobile and sends a text- **What could cause sudden-onset hallucinations? It’s for a case. -SH**  
  
It’s minutes before John responds, and Sherlock’s just about to put his mobile back in his pocket when the text arrives.  
  
 **No. Just...no. Not right now, Sherlock. -JW**  
  
Infuriating man. Obviously the jumper isn’t working as well as John had hoped. It’s surprising, because, speaking as an objective observer, it was quite a bit more flattering than his usual options. Resolutely turning his thoughts away from both John’s sartorial choices and the pint-sized apparition on his sofa, Sherlock heads back into the kitchen.  
  
“You can’t ignore this. You know who I am, Sherlock, and you know that I’m dead. You solved my murder, after all. I’m here now because of it.”  
  
“You are nothing more than the heretofore undiscovered effects of an experiment gone wrong. While study of its further applications may be interesting, I’m currently finding the experience quite tedious, thank you.” _Do not engage_ , his brain supplies as he settles back down.  
  
He’s reaching for a box of cover slips when the box, his microscope, and the chair that he’s sitting in promptly disappear. It’s harder to remain aloof when bum meets floor unexpectedly. _How did...what just happened?_ Hallucinating murder victims is one thing, but vanishing furniture is something else entirely. Cautiously, he makes his way to the sitting room armchair and folds himself into it, facing...Carl.  
  
“Do I have your attention now?”  
  
Sherlock nods, slowly. He’s finding it difficult to deduce what may be happening and is grasping at data rather desperately. It does appear to be Carl- the clothes match those found in his locker after his death, and he’d noticed the lack of trainers when the figment first appeared.  
  
“It’s been twenty-three years since I died, Sherlock, and the years have not been kind to you, or rather- you have not been kind to them. Your mother, Mycroft, Victor, Lestrade, even John- when was the last time you showed a moment’s kindness to any of them? Real, human kindness?”  
  
Sherlock draws himself up. He’s so tired of this argument, and he certainly doesn’t intend to have it with what is quite likely his own imagination. “I solve crimes. I catch murderers! Does kindness really compare to saving people’s lives?”  
  
“That’s not why you do it, though, and we both know it. You love the chase and your own cleverness, the thrill of it. Nearly as good a high as cocaine, isn’t it, although nothing really matches it. Even getting clean didn’t help you understand them any better. There’s no sympathy, no empathy in you.”  
  
“So what if there's not!” Sherlock pulls himself back, fingers steepled, forcing down another outburst. “It’s not as if I can’t observe what it does to them. John, Lestrade, even my god-forsaken brother, on occasion- they suffer _needlessly_. It doesn’t help anyone, doesn’t solve the case faster, it won’t bring anyone back from the dead.” He pauses to lift an eyebrow at his visitor. “Or maybe it will, although that certainly makes no excuse for your appearance here.”  
  
The ghost of Carl Powers looks him straight in the eye. “You need help, Sherlock. You need a change. The road you’re on... there is nothing but smoke and blood and death at the end of it, for you and for the people you claim not to care about. That road is littered with bodies, and believe me when I say that you do not want to walk down it.”  
  
Sherlock swallows. He does not find that acceptable to contemplate, even in the hypothetical. Ever since the Pool, he has been more cognizant of John’s safety, more aware of the fact that his loss would not be... tolerable.  
  
“You will be visited by three ghosts. Undoubtedly this will be difficult for you to swallow, being who you are, but you will need to try and cooperate. The first will appear at 1am, the second at 2am, and the third-”  
  
“At 3? How predictable.” The fact that this entire encounter is absurd begins to work its way back into Sherlock’s mind. Maybe this is why John is constantly after him to eat something.  
  
“Please, Sherlock. Remember what I’ve said. If you knew what was coming... Just try, alright? See what they have to show you.”  
  
Seconds later, the sitting room is clear, and only a missing kitchen chair and Sherlock’s unsettled expression give any indication that all is not quiet on this Christmas night.


	2. Christmas Past

Sherlock’s been pacing the flat for nearly an hour, pouring over everything that happened. He refuses to admit, even to himself, that he can’t make heads or tails of it. There’s no trace evidence, no fingerprint or fiber to suggest that there was a second person in the flat that night; no smudge or scuff marks that might indicate where his kitchen chair has gone. It’s difficult to deny that the appearance of his... visitor... matches the photograph of Carl Powers that he holds in his hand. His own mantra tells him that, if he is willing to accept that the idea is not completely impossible, then it must be the answer.  
  
“I have been visited by an apparition.” His voice echoes in the empty room and makes a mockery of his statement, but his own deductions have led him to this conclusion.  
  
Fine, yes. Observe and move forward. There must be some sort of scientific explanation for the existence of spirits, but Sherlock does not, has never, believed in predestination. He refuses to accept that his or John’s life is already plotted out somewhere, driving them to a shadowy doom. It is nothing but sentiment of the basest sort, and yet...  
  
There has been time, since the confrontation with Moriarty, to reflect on the actions that brought him to the Pool. He thinks, now, that he might have chosen differently if he’d known that he was playing with John’s life, as well as his own. Sherlock is beginning to realise that keeping John safe (keeping him close) may be a priority. He needs more information, and if these apparitions can provide it, then he’ll go along with whatever they have planned.  
  
“Well, that’s certainly good to hear.” The alarm on his phone chimes softly- it’s 1AM, and he whirls around to see an elderly woman at the kitchen table. She is perched in the space that is still decidedly lacking a chair.  
  
He examines her carefully: physical age between fifty and fifty-five, classic cream-colored Chanel suit, sprig of holly pinned to the lapel. Normally he would be making rapid-fire deductions, but he is coming to the realization that he has no information about the lifestyle choices of a spirit. He may be working from an incorrect data set. He does note that, unlike Carl Powers, her appearance triggers no connections in his mental files, no past cases or decades-old mysteries.  
  
“So then- you are Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”  
  
“Long past?”  
  
“Of course not, dear. What use would that be to you?” She shakes her head. “No, what we’re interested in this evening is _your_ past.”  
  
Sherlock’s lip curls. Most of his past is exceedingly dull- he has actually deleted large portions of it. His childhood, the dreadful years at uni followed by the interminable, hazy period between graduation and discovering his Work... What possible use could there be in rehashing any of it? His hope that this experience may bring valuable data-- faint to begin with-- is beginning to dwindle.  
  
“Come now, Sherlock. You know better than to make assumptions without first observing the situation.”  
  
“I also know, madam, that it is rude to eavesdrop on one’s private conversations,” certainly John has drummed that into him often enough, “and therefore can only deduce that it is _intolerably_ rude to do the same to one’s private thoughts.” If only he could teach the same lesson to Mycroft, he could stop searching the flat for bugs once a week.  
  
The look he receives in return for snapping at the ghost reminds him distinctly of being a small boy, facing a scolding from his grandmother.  
  
“I think it’s high time we got started, don’t you, Sherlock?” She beckons him into the kitchen with the wave of a hand. Unlike Carl Powers, this ghost has substance, and she takes his hand in hers before he can flinch away. She blinks, and then-  
  
: : :  
  
They are standing in the middle of what Sherlock recognizes as the parlour of his family’s estate. He hasn’t been home in years, and it’s been at least a decade since it looked like this; the room is full of people, and laughter overlays the string music in the air. Their sudden entrance seems to go unnoticed, which doesn’t surprise him- if the spirit can transport the two of them through both time and space, invisibility cannot be too complicated.  
  
Finished surveying the room, his ghostly companion turns to him. “Do you know why we’re here?”  
  
“I can only presume that you intend to show me some moment which you feel to be of significance. Let us hope for both our sakes that you are correct; I do deplore my time being wasted.”  
  
She merely gestures to the corner of the room, and as if by cue, a commotion starts. Sherlock registers his own voice, young, perhaps seven or eight. People turn to look and Sherlock steps closer.  
  
“Sherlock, you know you can’t tell stories about people, it isn’t right.” His mother, elegantly dressed and having obviously consumed several glasses of champagne, stands in front of her red-faced son. Sherlock is quite familiar with the expression on her face- dismissive, and far more concerned with the scene they are making than with Sherlock himself.  
  
“I wasn’t _telling stories_ ,” the child shouts, frustrated nearly to the point of tears. “Mr. Beldman has been kissing Miss Moore! I can tell!” He points to a flustered man standing between two pink-cheeked women, one of whom is Mrs. Beldman. Sherlock passes a look over the three of them and deduces that he had indeed been kissing the other woman earlier. What his childhood self has missed is the fact that the wife had _also_ been kissing her at the time, as the satisfied glance the two women exchange certainly indicates. The expression on Beldman’s face, however, makes it clear that he doesn’t appreciate his laundry being aired quite so publicly.  
  
“That is _enough_ , Sherlock! I absolutely will not have-” his mother cuts herself off at the touch of Mycroft’s hand on her arm. Home from Eton for the holidays, Mycroft looks every inch the Holmes heir; well-dressed, proper, and a fine example of everything that Sherlock wasn’t as a young man. The sudden visual reminder stings in a way that it hasn’t for years.  
  
“I’ll take care of it, Mummy.” He scoops his younger brother into his arms, and the boy promptly dissolves into tears, clearly overwrought. Sherlock and the spirit trail behind Mycroft as he strides from the room and up the stairs, finding an empty drawing room and locking the door behind him.  
  
Mycroft settles into an armchair and rubs a soothing hand over his brother’s back. The expression on his face is one that adult Sherlock doesn’t remember ever having seen- worry lacking condescension, protective without being patronizing, and an anger directed not at Sherlock, but at their mother.  
  
Eventually the boy lifts his head. “I wasn’t lying, Mycroft. I just... figured it out. Like a puzzle.”  
  
Mycroft turns his brother to face him. “I know. It was clever of you to see things that way. But not everyone is as smart as you are, and they don’t necessarily want to know the things that you do- or have you tell other people their secrets, like tonight.”  
  
“I can’t help being clever!”  
  
“But you _can_ keep from saying it. Here’s what we’ll do, alright? Tomorrow we’ll find you a notebook, so that you can write down your observations. Whenever you have a particularly interesting one, instead of telling Mummy, you can send it to me at Eton. How does that sound?”  
  
As the child gives a tiny smile, Sherlock touches his suit pocket, where a small notebook rests even now. He’s carried them with him as long as he can remember, keeping track of observations and deductions, or the results of his various experiments. He’d forgotten that it was Mycroft who first suggested it. His mental image of Mycroft doesn’t include a brother who ever cared for him, who watched over him gently rather than prodding and manipulating.  
  
“It’s interesting, what we choose to forget, isn’t it?” The spirit is still gazing at the younger Sherlock, who has dozed off in his brother’s lap. “I don’t blame you, I suppose- it was hard for you as a child. No one but Mycroft really understood you, did they?”  
  
“No, they didn’t. My school mates thought I was odd- freakish, even. Mummy and Father simply wanted another quiet, perfect son- someone exactly like Mycroft. They weren’t interested in what I could do, only in the noise I made doing it.”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head. It’s over and done with, has been for years, and he refuses to allow himself to be bothered by the thought of it. Nothing but useless emotional drivel.  
  
The spirit sets a hand on his shoulder, and again-  
  
: : :  
  
They are somewhere else. He knows it instantly, and wishes he didn’t. He’s thought about deleting this memory, in fact; tried to, on at least one occasion. He has found that it slips back in, unwanted.  
  
It is Christmas Eve yet again, and they are standing in the flat that Sherlock and Victor had shared after graduating from University. The carol singers outside aren’t enough to drown out the sound of Victor’s shouting.  
  
Sherlock finds himself unable to step forward. He knows what he would see if he opened the bedroom door: himself, splayed across the bed after another attempt at distraction ended in a needle and a 7% solution. Victor, home earlier than expected after spending the day with family. Victor, to whom he’d sworn that the last time would be just that- the last time.  
  
The door opens and it is, impossibly, worse than he remembers. The cocaine-induced haze has dulled the edges of Victor’s grief and his own strung-out appearance. Victor walks into the sitting room, a hastily-packed bag in one hand, keys in the other. Sherlock stumbles after, dazed.  
  
“I _will not_ do this anymore, Sherlock. We both know that you love something else more than you ever cared for me.”  
  
Sherlock, so high he can barely stand, grips the edges of the doorframe. “Don’t go, Victor. You should...stay.”  
  
“Why? I’ve watched you drop everything you were ever interested in, myself included, so that you can spend more time getting high. You want to get away from the world, but I live in it! These things that you ignore, that you’re constantly running away from- I’m a part of them, and you’ve left me behind.”  
  
“They don’t matter. You do. I haven’t changed towards you, have I?”  
  
“God, Sherlock, yes, you have! Every time you shoot up you erase me from your life a little bit more. I loved _you_ , your brain and your spirit, and when you’re high you don’t have either. I refuse to stay here and watch you do this to yourself any longer.”  
  
With that, Victor walks to the door and is gone. Sherlock reaches out, but loses his hold on the doorframe and slides to the floor. He is in tears, wants Victor back, desperately, but the tiny part of his brain that never shuts down is already calculating where he will find his next fix.  
  
The adult Sherlock turns his back on his younger self. He cannot make himself watch another second of this. He does not want a reminder of the junkie that he used to be, prefers to pretend that it simply never happened. As the young man on the floor starts to crawl back to his bedroom (back to the rest of his stash), the spirit focuses her attention on the older Sherlock.  
  
“Tell me about Victor, Sherlock. We both know the disdain that you have for most people. What made him different? What was so special about him, that Sherlock Holmes would want to be with him, of all people? Although obviously it wasn’t enough to keep your attention.”  
  
Sherlock whirls around, suddenly furious at the spirit’s tone. How dare she?  
  
“He was _kind_ to me! He was the first of my peers to treat me like a person, instead of a calculating machine or some sort of circus sideshow. He was clever, and funny, and warm, and he never expected me to be anything but who I was. Do not talk about him that way. He... mattered.”  
  
Against all expectations, the spirit does nothing but smile at this outburst. “That’s it, Sherlock. You just might be starting to get it.”  
  
He draws himself to his full height, more than ready to deliver every scathing remark he’s held back so far this evening. Before he can speak, the Spirit lays a finger across his lips, smiles again-  
  
: : :  
  
He’s back in the flat. The only sound is his phone, the alarm letting him know that it is 2am.

 


	3. Christmas Present

Sherlock expects the next spirit to surprise him, which is how he manages to keep from flinching when a tall, ginger-haired man appears on his sofa between one blink and the next. His hair clashes with his absolutely _appalling_ Christmas jumper. It is worse than any jumper John has ever owned, which is saying quite a bit. The spirit grins at Sherlock and props his feet on the coffee table.  
  
“My last ‘guest’ introduced herself as the Ghost of Christmas Past. I assume, then, that would make you the Ghost of Christmas Present?”  
  
The ghost fishes a flask out of his trousers, toasts Sherlock, and takes a long swallow. “Right you are, Mr. Holmes, although I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that. My brothers mentioned that you were clever.”  
  
“Fans of mine, are they?”  
  
“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. But then, it seems as if you return the sentiment. I can’t remember the last time you let Christmas into your home. Even that rather adorable doctor couldn’t persuade you.”  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes at this. “And just what should I be welcoming about Christmas? Apart from the fact that drunkenness coupled with enforced familial interaction regularly results in cases for me to solve?”  
  
At that, the spirit rises to his feet. “Let’s just go take a look, shall we?” The flask is handed off to Sherlock, who sniffs it gingerly. Cloves and anise, tea, the warmth of mulled wine, a nip of cinnamon... He realizes, quite suddenly, that he feels good. Flicking a glance at the spirit, who nods, Sherlock takes a small sip. Then one that’s not quite so small. And another. It’s possible that he’s grinning quite uncontrollably now and actually swaying a bit, but he can’t find it in him to care.  
  
The spirit laughs, claps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and spins him around-  
  
: : :  
  
The spinning’s made him dizzy, so it’s a moment or two before he opens his eyes and sees Lestrade, standing atop a desk, wearing tinsel in his hair and clutching a half-empty bottle. It’s the Yard Christmas party. Of course it is; but the fact that he’s here at this ridiculous affair after all doesn’t bother him as much as he thinks it should.  
  
“Oi! You lot! Quiet down, I need to make a toast! Where’s John? John Watson, where've you gone off to?"  
  
Sherlock hears a familiar laugh as John is tugged to the center of the room. It's the laugh he normally saves for Sherlock's more outlandish endeavors; it says, "I have no idea what's going on here, but I'll go along with it anyway, provided that you don't humiliate us too badly." It always makes Sherlock’s lips quirk, just for a moment, and tonight he finds himself giving in to the smile. It gets bigger as he watches John clamber onto the desk next to Lestrade and give the crowd a little wave.  
  
He looks John over and realizes that, while he's a little flushed (a combination of embarrassment and alcohol), he has not been... overly-friendly... with any of the women at the party this evening. The knowledge only amplifies the warm, practically cheerful feeling that's buzzing away in Sherlock's stomach, courtesy of the spirit's flask. He wonders a little, though, at John’s apparent lack of success- after all, he does look quite... acceptable... in those trousers. Excessive alcohol consumption must be blinding the women of the Met this evening.  
  
A sweater-clad elbow pokes him none-too-gently. "You might want to pay attention to what they’re actually _saying_ , yeah?”  
  
Lestrade, waving both arms now, continues to speak. "I think we all know that we owe John here an _enormous_ debt! Someone has to make sure that evidence doesn’t walk away and that deductions get explained to us poor sods, and I’m damn grateful that it doesn’t have to be me! So let’s have a drink to John Watson, quite possibly the only person in the world who could tolerate living, day-in and day-out, with Sherlock bloody Holmes!"  
  
There are a few cheers at this, and Sherlock himself is inclined to agree with the statement. None of his previous flatmates have lasted anywhere near as long as John. Secretly, he's a little bit glad of the fact- John’s presence is infinitely preferable.  
  
"In fact," Lestrade continues enthusiastically, "I think you might be rubbing off on him just a bit, John. Just the other day Sherlock told me that I was 'not entirely an imbecile,' after all."  
  
"As if anything could turn that poncy arsehole into a real boy," shouts someone from the back of the room.  
  
John's eyes narrow at this, and Lestrade points his (now-empty) bottle at the speaker. "Oi, watch it. It's certainly true that Sherlock can be a miserable, smug git on, well, every occasion. He's a bit of an egomaniacal bastard, in fact, and god knows it’s impossible to try and work with him.”  
  
Sherlock frowns. The pleasant, floaty feeling he’s been enjoying is starting to recede. It seems as if the effects of the spirit’s drink must wear off quickly.  
  
“But somewhere under that ridiculously posh exterior is a good man. He’s saved my life before, and John’s, and even a few of yours on occasion, and don’t any of you forget it.”  
  
The room is quiet for a moment as Lestrade climbs down off the desk and pulls John after him. He slings an arm around John’s shoulders and walks him into the DI’s office as the sounds of the party start again.  
  
“Cheer up and have another drink, there’s a good lad. You know, I think that Lestrade fellow might _actually_ like you.” The spirit elbows Sherlock again, prompting him to take the flask.  
  
Lestrade’s comments about him are more than a little... puzzling. Why would he bother? It’s true that Sherlock would rather work with Lestrade than any of the other idiots that NSY employs. The man is, occasionally, very nearly clever, and is willing to accept Sherlock’s deductions as fact, which is more important. However, it isn’t as if Sherlock has ever considered him a friend. He can’t imagine a situation in which he’d care enough to speak up for or defend Lestrade.  
  
“Didn’t I tell you to drink up? The party’s not over yet, and I expect you’ll need the fortification.” At the spirit’s incessant nudging, Sherlock takes another swallow from the flask. He’s reminded, suddenly, of the first time that John listened to one of his deductions and called Sherlock brilliant. He chases the feeling unabashedly, drinking until the spirit reaches over and pulls the flask away from Sherlock’s mouth.  
  
“That’s enough, I should think. Too much more and you’ll be floating on the ceiling.” With that, the spirit steers Sherlock across the room and up to the door of Lestrade’s office. Sherlock presses his ear to the door but can only hear the indistinct rumble of voices. He’s just turning, a questioning look on his face, when the spirit places both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and pushes him _through_ the door. Sherlock stumbles, reaches out to catch himself, and ends up half-sprawled across one of Lestrade’s office chairs. The spirit walks calmly through the door and doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.  
  
Sherlock pulls himself together rapidly, turning his attention to the other occupants of the room. Lestrade sits behind his desk, both feet kicked up on its surface, while John sits opposite, arms crossed, legs spread wide, head tipped back. The look on Lestrade’s face is one that Sherlock recognizes from a hundred crime scenes; it’s pity. It’s stronger than just the “bad luck living with a madman” expression from earlier.  
  
“No luck convincing Himself to come with you tonight, then?”  
  
Sherlock’s brows knit. Lestrade can’t have honestly expected that he’d be willing to come to this party. In all the years they’ve worked together, this is the first Christmas he’s even been asked to come. Sherlock blames this year’s invitation on John’s remarkable affability.  
  
John heaves a sigh and doesn’t lift his head. “You know, I actually thought I had? I brought it up three times without him blowing me off, then tonight he calls it ‘idiotic sentiment’ and refuses to leave the bloody flat.”  
  
“What a wanker. Did you say anything about-” Lestrade awkwardly waves a hand in John’s direction.  
  
“God, no. Can you imagine, after all that? No, I just left.”  
  
“Well, you’re going to have to sometime; just last week at the pub you swore you were going to man up and tell him the truth.”  
  
Sherlock realizes that he’s leaning forward into John’s space, fists clenched and white-knuckled. What has John been hiding from him? He would have noticed if something was wrong, wouldn’t he? He pays far too much attention to John as it is; he would have caught the signs of illness. Unless it were something internal, something potentially asymptomatic... Suddenly his mind is racing with anything that it could possibly be, analyzing everything he’s noted about John over the last few months for any sort of discrepancy.  
  
The spirit, standing behind him, rests a hand on his shoulder and leans down to whisper in his ear. “Calm down, lad. I wager you’ll want to catch this next bit.”  
  
John finally leans forward and looks at Lestrade. “You know, Greg, maybe it’s better if I don’t. I can’t even convince him to come to a sodding Christmas party with me. You should have seen the look on his face- nothing but contempt for all of us ‘plebeian morons.’ If I tell him that I’m in love with him, he’ll probably toss me out of the flat for good.”  
  
Sherlock is frozen. There’s a mad, buzzing sensation in his chest, the likes of which he hasn’t experienced since he got clean. Love? He’s aware that John _likes_ him, that he considers them friends, but this? People admire Sherlock, respect his work, find him attractive, even, but they don’t love him. And John, of all people- John, who’s seen his messes and his moods, knows his history, who Sherlock has left behind at crime scenes and interrupted on dates... Why on Earth would John choose to fall in love with him?  
  
He sits there, stunned, as Lestrade professes his sympathies once again and then drags John out into the party for another drink. The spirit props himself on an empty corner of the desk and eyes Sherlock carefully.  
  
“So, big head full of all those brains and you didn’t see this one coming, hmm? I suppose people can surprise even you.”  
  
This earns the spirit a glare. That’s just it- people _don’t_ surprise him. It took the likes of Moriarty to catch him off guard the last time. How has he not seen this? Either John is far more clever than Sherlock’s given him credit for, or Sherlock has made a mistake somewhere. Twisted data to suit his theories, rather than making real, unbiased observations.  
  
“This is what happens when you pay attention to the facts and ignore the people behind them, Holmes. You miss things. You make mistakes. If you’ve missed this, what else might you have missed?”  
  
He will not listen to the spirit’s condescension for a single moment longer. Sherlock stands up, whirls toward the door, only to have the spirit catch his arm and-  
  
: : :  
  
He’s alone in his flat. As he throws himself down on the sofa, his phone quietly rings in 3am.

 


	4. Christmas Future

Sherlock’s thoughts are reeling, and he tries desperately to clear his head. He has one visitor left tonight, and if these revelations are anything like the last, he will require every ounce of steadiness possible. He gets up from the sofa only when he realizes that minutes have passed and the last spirit has yet to announce itself.  
A silent figure stands at the entrance of the flat. Unlike the refined elegance of Christmas Past and the jocularity of Christmas Present, this man gives off an unapproachable air that rivals Sherlock’s own. In fact, he resembles Sherlock to a degree that lesser minds might find unnerving; tall, thin, a crisp, well-tailored suit topped by a pale face and dark hair. The face, though... Every time Sherlock blinks, the spirit’s face seems different, but it’s so subtle that not even his trained eye can note a specific alteration.

It’s disconcerting, a feeling compounded by the smell that Sherlock catches as the spirit paces forward. Moss and dirt, frankincense and lilies, a hint of mold overlaying the tang of iron... It reeks of decay and seems to reach into the primal, most buried parts of Sherlock’s brain. He is suddenly very, very sure that he does not want to see whatever this spirit has been sent to show him.

He has barely enough self-control to keep from stepping back when the spirit reaches for him. A hand clasps his wrist-

: : :

They are still in the flat, but it is a darker, colder version than the home he recognizes. He prowls the room and realizes it shows signs of only one recent occupant, and it isn’t Sherlock himself. That’s John’s mug in the sink, while a noticeable film of dust has gathered on Sherlock’s microscope. The refrigerator, for once, is free of the sort of items that John would identify as unacceptable.

The spirit gazes at Sherlock silently, and he feels a ludicrously inexplicable chill. He’s traveled for cases before, and as John is so often reminding him, he is not Sherlock’s valet. He does not accompany Sherlock everywhere. There is absolutely no reason to feel so unnerved by the empty feeling that suffuses the flat.

Sherlock is not at all relieved when the street door opens and he identifies the sound of John, coming up the stairs. The steps are slow, and the gait is uneven- the limp is back. For the second time this evening, his thoughts spiral out of control, making deductions that point towards a conclusion he refuses to consider. The limp is psychosomatic; there are any number of things that might induce it, but none of them are remotely pleasant.

The sight of John provides Sherlock no reassurance. There is no _life_ to the man, none of the spark that first captured Sherlock’s attention. Shirt and trousers baggy, skin too tight, everything faded... He’s quite obviously not been eating, or sleeping. All the evidence points to a major trauma in John’s life, likely within the past six months to a year. Something that affected him deeply, the loss of a close friend or family member. Not Harry; John barely speaks to his sister anymore. Their parents died years ago. Sherlock refuses to acknowledge the most likely candidate for John’s grief.

Sherlock has known since the Pool that the loss of John Watson would be unacceptable, but he would never have imagined that John would react the same way, were the circumstances reversed. Of the two of them, John is the strong one; always brave, always capable in ways that Sherlock himself is not. Sherlock has always assumed that, had things gone badly that night with Moriarty, John would simply... soldier on. It would take more than Sherlock’s demise to break a man like John Watson, but what?

Sherlock crosses to the kitchen table as John sets down a sheaf of papers and then turns to walk up the stairs. Skimming the top page, he reads, “ _In the event of my death, I, John Watson, being of sound mind and body, do hereby..._ ” It is a copy of John’s Will, freshly notarized.

He and John have never spoken of why a soldier, newly invalided home from Afghanistan, might be keeping an illegal, loaded firearm stashed in his bedsit. Sherlock had deduced it, of course, but even he knows that some things cannot be spoken of easily. He wishes they had, now, as he races up the stairs to John’s room. He shoves the door open. Falls to his knees as the sound of a shot rings through the flat.

Sherlock has no concept of how long he stays there, frozen and unseeing, before a pale hand settles on his shoulder. He is on his feet instantly, clutching the spirit's lapels, practically hissing. "Tell me how to _fix this_. Tell me what I have to do. Tell me!" He only distantly notes that he is shouting. All he can focus on is John- _his_ John, his lovely, warm, laughing John- and the way that his blood on the floor looked more vivid than any Sherlock's ever seen.

Silently, gently, the spirit reaches between them and cups Sherlock’s face between chilled palms. He closes his eyes against the expression on the spirit’s face-

: : :

When his eyes open again, they are standing in a graveyard. It isn’t the sight of two headstones, side by side, that knocks Sherlock off balance, though; it is the men in front of them. Mycroft, looking weary and more drawn than he’s ever seen, and Sherlock himself, thin and battered and _broken_ , but alive.

He doesn’t understand. Can’t get his head around it. If he is alive here, in this time, why didn’t his future-self put a stop to it? How could he have let John come to this? Sherlock was so sure that it involved his own death, all of the evidence pointed towards it... He wants to grab this Sherlock-incarnation and shake him until the answers come out.

He takes a mindless step forward, and as if prompted, Mycroft starts to speak. Every word out of Mycroft’s mouth makes the man next to him crumple a little further into himself.

“What you did, Sherlock... It was cruel. How did you think that someone like John would handle being transformed into your suicide note?”

“It was the only way to keep him safe.” The words are whispered, offered up as the barest of excuses.

“It wasn’t, and you know it. We both know you had this planned out in advance, down to the smallest detail. Why didn’t you ask for his help? A man with John’s skills would have been a useful advantage. Instead you did... this.” Mycroft’s eyes flit across both graves.

“I was afraid, is that what you want to hear? You were the one who told me that caring is not an advantage, and we both know that he was my weak spot. I thought that if I... left, that he would move on, find some insipid woman to occupy his time, maybe, but he would be _alive_. Moriarty’s associates would have no reason to target him.”

There is silence for a long moment, and then a bitter laugh escapes Mycroft. “Well, you were right about that, certainly. No one made him a target, except for you.” He turns and walks away as his brother starts to sink to the ground.

Sherlock cannot stand another moment of this. Cannot, _cannot_ take it. His own knees feel weak, and he doesn’t blame the Sherlock that huddles, shoulders shaking, in front of John Watson’s grave. There have been times when he’s dragged John into something that could end in their deaths, but this... The idea that he might be directly responsible, that he somehow drove John to this thing, that he might live on while John lies cold in the ground; it’s intolerable. He has never wanted a fix so badly in his life.

Blindly, he reaches out to the spirit in nothing short of supplication. “Take me home. Please. _Please_.” The lightest of touches circles his wrist-

: : :

It is 4am. Sherlock curls up in the corner of the sofa, waiting for John to return as Christmas morning begins to break over London.

 


	5. Christmas Morning

By the time the sun comes up, Sherlock has retreated deep into his mind palace. There’s too much new information- he needs it catalogued and put away safely, where it won’t be lost or ignored. He’s cradled each moment in his hand like a gem, extrapolating every bit of data possible. What it tells him is clear; how to deal with it is less obvious.

  
Changes will be required, and he will make them. He never wants to catch so much as a glimpse of that possible future. Refuses to allow it to sneak up on him- on _them_ (that there will be a ‘them’ is not in question). John, however unknowingly, has made his feelings clear. All that remains now is to convince him that those emotions are returned. It took a ghostly intervention for Sherlock to realize the depth of his own feelings; for his own sake, he hopes that it is somewhat easier to persuade John. He swallows hard and reaches for his mobile. It’s been nearly thirty years since he asked Mycroft for help; hopefully the shock doesn’t kill his brother where he sits.  
  
“Sherlock- getting the required Christmas day greeting out of the way early, are we?” Mycroft’s tone is as dry and composed as always; if it didn’t involve asking for a favor, Sherlock would enjoy the confusion he is about to inflict.  
  
“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.” Sherlock catches the faintest of pauses before Mycroft’s reply.  
  
“Thank you. The same to you, and to John, of course.” John. He probably should have spoken to John before setting this all in motion, but Sherlock wants to reveal it, fully-formed, like one of his deductions. Then John will smile his particular smile, and maybe call him ‘brilliant’ or ‘fantastic.’ Perhaps he will even... Sherlock cuts that thought off before he becomes any more distracted.  
  
“Do you have plans for later today?” The pause is significantly more noticeable this time.  
  
“Christmas lunch with David, of course. He inquired about your attendance, as always, although I’m not sure why, at this point.” Since they’ve been married, Mycroft’s husband has been trying to get both brothers in the same room for a meal. Sherlock has never understood why he persists in asking, and has never been interested in attending until now.  
  
“I was thinking, actually, that John and I might attend. If that’s alright with you.” A sound, instantly stifled, which Sherlock correctly interprets as Mycroft trying not to choke.  
  
“Might I inquire as to the reason for your change of heart? Surely the realization of your feelings for the good doctor haven’t made you any more inclined to grace us with your presence.” He’d expected that Mycroft would deduce it immediately, and finds that it doesn’t bother him. It’s nothing he’s interested in hiding.  
  
“As it happens, I’ve recently been reminded that one should spend Christmas with the people one... cares about.” Sherlock hears the rapid clicking of keys on the other end of the line. He imagines that Mycroft is accessing the surveillance cameras around 221B, verifying that no one is holding Sherlock at gunpoint to prompt this confession.  
  
“We’ll expect you at 3, then. Is there anything else I can do for you, Sherlock?” He’s probably expecting to hear one of their emergency code words, but they’ve never worked out a code for something like this.  
  
“I need food. Breakfast. Something that John would like.” Mycroft doesn’t even bother to hide his laugh at this, but for the first time in years Sherlock doesn’t feel like Mycroft is laughing at him.  
  
“It will be there within thirty minutes. Should I have him delivered to you within the hour, as well?”  
  
“That would do nicely. Thank you.”  
  
: : :  
  
Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock is... not panicking, because, he tells himself, Sherlock Holmes does not panic. His earlier confidence has given way to speculations about the ways this plan could end; most of them have to do with John shouting at him. He adjusts the dishes spread across the table- Mrs. Hudson, who’d curiously followed Mycroft’s assistant upstairs, had informed him that presentation was key in these sorts of situations.  
  
It will be fine. It will be _fine_. He knows that John is in love with him, there’s no reason to be so- concerned. There’s the possibility, though, that John has changed his mind in the intervening hours. He almost certainly spent the evening with Lestrade, both men were inebriated, anything could have... No. No, he refuses to have doubts. Even if something happened, Sherlock has decided on this course of action, so John will simply have to change his mind _back_. It’s only reasonable.  
  
He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he might have missed the sound of John coming up the stairs, had he not been stomping his way up them. Obviously being brought back to Baker Street at nine in the morning has done little for John’s temperament. Sherlock can only hope that the rest of his plan will be more well-received.  
  
John slams his way into the flat, looking exhausted, rumpled, and more than a bit hung-over. Sherlock is relieved to see that he’s spent the night alone on Lestrade’s sofa.  
  
“Sherlock- care to inform me why Mycroft showed up at Lestrade’s flat and insisted ‘it was of the utmost importance that I return to the flat immediately,’ when I know for a fact that you’ve got nothing on but some experiment? It’s bloody Christmas morning, you could at least...” He trails off as he catches sight of the frankly ridiculous amount of food in the kitchen.  
  
Sherlock can’t seem to stop his fingers from twitching, so he clasps them behind his back. “Merry Christmas, John. Breakfast?”  
  
John simply stands there, dumbfounded, so Sherlock steers him into the kitchen and sets him gently into their one remaining chair. He fills a plate with John’s favorites and places it in front of him expectantly.  
  
John eyes the food suspiciously. “What...why...what? Is this poisoned? What on Earth is going on, Sherlock?”  
  
“John. It’s come to my attention that I- that you- what I mean to say is- oh, _sod it all_.” He claps both hands around John’s head and leans down to kiss him, rather forcefully, on the mouth.  
  
Rather than kissing him back, as Sherlock was hoping, John splutters and shoves him away.  
  
“Get off me, you git! What the _bloody sodding hell_ is happening? I’m gone for one night and suddenly there’s breakfast and, and, and kissing? I want an explanation, Sherlock, and I want it now.”  
  
Sherlock takes a deep breath and locks his eyes on John’s face, which is getting steadily more flushed. “I love you, John. I love you and I think that we should solve crimes and have adventures and maybe get a dog- you like dogs- and I’ll be brilliant and you’ll be brave. I love you. We can travel- I’ve always wanted to go to Egypt, do you like Egypt- and grow old and hold hands and raise bees and live in the country. I’ll compose a sonata for you and you’ll turn your blog into a book. I love you.”  
  
John’s knees wobble and he props himself against the table, but his gaze is steady as he looks at Sherlock. “So... that’s the plan, is it?”  
  
Sherlock swallows and nods.  
  
John pushes himself away from the table and steps into Sherlock’s personal space. His John, who never hesitates and walks into danger with wide-open eyes.  
  
“I think you’d better kiss me again, then, hadn’t you?”  
  
: : :  
  
Later there will be time for explanation and discussion. They will go to Christmas lunch at Mycroft’s, and John will look dashing in a suit. Night will fall, and they will climb under the blankets and find a new way to share secrets. There will be plans, and arguments, and chases through London, grey hair and tears and lives well-lived. For now there are kisses, first and cherished and lovely, and in the air the sound of church bells on Christmas morning.

 


End file.
